Heard Around The Hospital

Holy facepalm, Batman!

I'm really busy over the next couple of days doing important work for a wedding (and by important work I mean I got tricked into helping put up the decorations --Editor) so I'm going to do what I do best and throw bad jokes at you instead.

Every week I'll post up some of the funny shit I hear around the hospital and med school in a Heard Around The Hospital post.

When I got into Cambridge, I made an open application and was selected by Jesus College. With medical students being famous as they are for making bad jokes, this means I would hear all sorts of crappy punchlines: 

"You have a friend in Jesus." 

"Jesus chose me!" -- from a student who got pooled into Jesus College 

"Jesus is coming, look busy!" -- from rowers when they saw the Jesus College rowing team down the river

And my personal favourite, after 1pm lectures, this guy would stand up and loudly proclaim, "Friends, let us return to Jesus - for lunch."

Holy crap, indeed.

Have you got any bad jokes about university names? Please don't leave more bad Jesus jokes, I already have enough bad humour on Twitter every day with Beliebers telling me Justin Bieber produces real music. (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Ah dammit. Someday I'll learn to say that without falling off my chair laughing. --Ed.)

Also, about the Premier League matches, I just want to say - the tweet below left me in stitches. I leave it with you.

Don't hate me, Man United fans. Ah what the heck, you guys already hate me anyway.

Post inspired by Dr Grumpy, my favourite blogger who doesn't love me back. Sniff WHINE WHINE okay jeez I sound like my ex-girlfriend.

When Doctors Troll

(Note: This post was published originally in 2007, but was taken down at the request of the doctor mentioned, as he's become quite well-known. All names have been changed to protect privacy.)

When I was a baby medic*, we were given a talk by Dr Noob, the author of a now-popular textbook, who gave us a grave warning about why you should never accept chocolate from a doctor.

On Dr Noob's first day at a new hospital, a senior doctor walked up and shook his hand. "Hey, I'm Dr M. Welcome to Freakshow General Hospital**," he grinned, and gave Dr Noob a Cadbury Creme Egg. "It's always been a tradition here to give the new doctor one of these. For good luck. Eat up, and if you have any questions, I'd be happy to help."

"Wow, thanks, that's really nice of you." Dr Noob popped the egg into his mouth and picked up a patient's chart. "Actually I do have a question; see this--"

But Dr M cut him off. "Actually Doctor, I'd like you to check the medication I've just administered, ."

Dr Noob looked at him. There were no patients around to give medication to. Then Dr M grinned evilly.

"Oh, didn't I say? It's also always been the tradition that the chocolate egg given to the new guy is injected with furosemide." (Furosemide is a water tablet that makes you pee. If you STILL have no idea what I'm talking about, here's a clue. --Ed.)

Dr M patted Dr Noob on the shoulder. "If I were you, I'd stay close to the toilet today, old chap. Wet pants flop a lot when you walk. Cheers!" And off he went. And you can imagine what the rest of the day was for poor old Dr Noob. 

And so a rivalry started between the two young doctors. But after a few weeks, they became friends, and two months after the whole incident, Dr Noob told Dr M, "You know, we've become friends now. Let bygones be bygones. Here, have a Cadbury Egg. As a token of peace." Dr M was suspicious, but Dr Noob said he'd take one too. So they both ate one.

Then Dr Noob stood back, grinned insanely, and said, "And now, Doctor, I'd like YOU to check the medication I've just administered."

Dr M's eyes widened. "Oh no you didn't."

Dr Noob stared at him for a moment, then smiled. "Heh. Nah, I didn't."

Dr M sighed with relief. "For a moment there, Noob, I tho--"

"I injected castor oil instead." (Castor oil is a laxative. It makes you shoot more shit out of your ass than Mitt Romney shoots out of his mouth. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, click here. --Ed.)

Dr M froze.

Dr Noob slapped him on the back and said, "If I were you, I'd stay close to the toilet today, old chap. Pity that scrub pants don't come in brown colour." And off he went.

And you thought doctors only stayed crazy whilst they were still in university...

*yes, I was young once. DON'T MAKE A HAIR JOKE. If you make a hair joke I will track you down, break into your house and stuff a wig made from Britney Spears' shaven hairs into an orifice of my choice. Then I'll plead 'temporary insanity' to the judge. This blog is all the proof I need that I'm batshit insane anyway.

**hospital name changed to protect privacy. Hospitals have feelings too, you know.

Excuse Me Whilst I Go Graduate

So I haven't put up a post in a while, and haven't even responded to the angry comments and hate mail building up in my inbox. This is because I flew back to England to attend my M.A. graduation ceremony in Cambridge University - yes, I am now Dr Angry Medic M.A. (Cantab).

Ridiculously handsome, right? And you thought I was joking about my good looks.

Not that any of you care - it's also an excuse for me to catch up with old friends, get ridiculously drunk, fall asleep on a random roadside in Cambridge and spend the next morning running away from the same University proctors that I insulted years ago on my blog. (Not that I, uh, actually did any of that. Oh no. --Editor)

Anyway, proper post and photos are on their way. Thanks for all your kind comments on Facebook (I know you just want free medical leave certificates out of me. --Ed.)

Graduation Day at Cambridge University

26th-28th June was Graduation Weekend at Cambridge University.

Getting to graduation, for me, has been one long struggle; from dodging the hardbound copies of Gray's Anatomy hurled at me by angry professors to actually passing the exams to finding the correct damn graduation gown hood with the correct damn fur lining culled from the correct damn near-extinct species of Mickey Mouse-shape-toothed Siberian tiger. (Extract from actual Graduation Day notice to students: "The Praelector will strictly enforce the dress code on graduation day for all students and you will not be allowed to graduate if, for example, your socks are the wrong colour*.")

But I made it. I made it through 3 years of getting a ego-battering every day, of trying to survive in the midst of people who were so obviously superior to me, and who often didn't like me due to my different sense of humour, my different accent, and my general weirdness. So I don't have any regrets as I look back on this place one last time before I leave it.

Cambridge taught me many things, and although I didn't agree with its education system, I can't deny that it IS very good. (If getting your head forcibly crammed with theoretical jargon by researchers who see the light of day less often than Amy Winehouse appears in public respectably and seeing patients twice a year is your idea of a good pre-clinical education, that is. --Ed.) Maybe not for me, but generally. (So says the Times, anyway. Okay, okay, I'll stop with the schizophrenic double-talk already. --Ed)

So on to clinical school! I visit Cambridge often enough that people see me more often than when I actually studied there, but it'll be great to proceed to clinical school and start finally killing patients uhm, making a difference in people's lives (and all that other crap you wrote in your personal statement when you applied. Don't pretend nobody knows where you got it from! --Ed)

So yeah. I'm back, folks. And if you think my adventures at clinical school are going to be any less funny-in-a-sickening-schadenfreude-way, read on and (hopefully) laugh. (Unless you live within my clinical school's NHS catchment area, of course. In which case the next time your doctor asks if it's okay if a medical student takes your blood, FOR GOD'S SAKE SAY NO. --Ed.)

*One of my classmates unfortunately forgot to read this fine print on the Graduation notice, and was told his socks were the wrong shade of black for the ceremony. Yes, you read that right; Cambridge praelectors are trained to recognise DIFFERENT FRIGGIN' SHADES OF BLACK. Luckily for him his dad wore the correct colour of socks, and he was forced to trade socks with his dad 10 minutes before the Graduation Parade.

If there's one thing I've learnt at Cambridge, it's to ALWAYS read the bloody fine print on anything. One final-year student read the rules in so much detail he found a 16th-century regulation that allowed all candidates sitting for his exam to demand one leg of roast ham and a glass of wine during the paper. Unfortunately for him he hadn't read far enough; upon asking for his food and wine in the exam hall his demands were met, but he was then fined for not wearing a sword. Guess you can't win 'em all. Still want a copy of the prospectus?

We Have Victory

Hallelujah.

All those bribes to the Examination Board prayers must have paid off.

Okay proper post coming next week (no really. For real this time. No really really honest-to-goodness cross-my-heart-- oh you get the picture). It might even be a soppy graduation nostalgia post. Or one last rant. Any bets?

P.S. Those of you reading this who aren't brain-dead with boredom already will have noticed this isn't the post I promised in my last post. I just wanted to make sure my rear end was safely out of Cambridge before I posted it. Coming soon!

The Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race 2008

Those of you who are interested in such things already know that Oxford soundly thrashed Cambridge at this year's Annual Boat Race, despite having the slowest time since 1947. For those of you who weren't there, allow me to show you these snapshots of the race near the end, taken by me with my Nikon D60 Super-Duper Camera with SarcasmoLens and built-in Adobe Photoshop InstaEdit(TM):

Oxford leads Cambridge at Barnes Bridge, towards the end of the race.
The length between the two teams here has been estimated by spectators as twice the width of the African continent.

Oxford Rowers Close-up Picture:

Cambridge Rowers Close-up Picture:

Dammit. Next year, Oxford, next year... *shakes fist*

Teacher, Doctor, Soldier, Spy

Forgive the long break between posts; between trying to drag the separate pieces of my life together like a farmer dragging obstinate mules by their tails and getting nothing but a lesson in mule butt anatomy (ass holes. AHAHA geddit? --Editor), I have also been giving Cambridge Access talks around the country and trying very hard not to scream "RUN FOLKS RUN!" at these poor masochists applying to Cambridge.

No doubt many of you have realised by now that the good Dr Crippen of NHS Blog Doctor has taken a leaf out of my book and taken a leaf of absence (leaf = leave. AHAHA geddit? I'm on a roll! --Ed) for a while, leaving the BritMeds in the capable if profanity-smeared hands of Dr Rant. They've been kind enough to put my reader-enforced comeback in their inaugural BritMeds. Go take a look and find out why the most popular search term leading to my blog is now 'Megan Fox'. Not that I'm complaining...people always did say I had a great body.

Also, my new post on Medscape discusses academic medicine and the attitudes towards it in different places. No, it's not another rant about how much I hate the academic slant at Cambridge. (Okay, so maybe just a little.) Go check it out and learn how you can pass on all the abuse poured on you in medical school and by your parents in childhood.

(Disclaimer: The above bad humour, crappy graphics and lack of quick response to comments posted below are all results of the flu I've got clogging up my nose. Well, that and the voices in my head, of course. They're getting louder these days and arguing with each other. Maybe I should tell my therapist about them sometime. --Ed)

Fear And Self-Loathing In Las Cambridge

Once a year, something very strange happens in Cambridge.

Cambridge. Hallowed centre for intellectual development. Home to some of the world's most serious and diligent scientific minds. Birthplace of discoveries and developments that change the way humanity views life, the world, and itself.

And yet, once a year in this place, all the effort, all the stress and toil, all the blood, sweat and tears of the entire year come boiling to the surface in one short rush.

And people start to go a little crazy.

Every year scores of Cambridge students, leaders of tomorrow, example students and first-class successes, will make a mass exodus to such landmarks as the Bridge of Sighs and the Mathematical Bridge, pause slightly, allowing the tourists to get their cameras up, take a lucky swig from the bottle in their hands, and voluntarily throw themselves off the bridge into the waters of the River Cam.

Ah yes, May Week in Cambridge.

On the other side of the University, a different sort of madness is taking place. Centred mostly around Senate House, this sort of madness involves crowds of students with fearful glances staring at notice boards, gabbing excitedly into phones, yelling and screaming and hugging bewildered Japanese tourists at random, or breaking down into sobs and beating up themselves/their friends/proctors standing unfortunately nearby/bewildered Japanese tourists.

Yes, it's exam result season in Cambridge.

I, unfortunately, have not done nearly as well as I should have. Whilst it's not end-of-the-world bad, it's bad enough to warrant a short hiatus from blogging. Posts will be slow, and whilst I'm sure no one's going to miss me, I just thought I'd pop a note to make sure no one thought I was sitting in my room being emo and sobbing my eyes out over Dr Burke not being on Grey's Anatomy anymore. Angry medics don't cry! Angry medics don't have tear ducts!

*loud wail "WHY, DR BURKE, WHY?!" in background*

Uhm. That wasn't me.

Borat Week At Cambridge Medical School

To my millions of faithful readers (and by that I mean two readers; three if you include the blind guy I gave my blog address to on the way to lectures; three-and-a-half if you include his seeing dog!) who have been waiting in suspense for an explanation of the new banner (and those of you who've sworn off coming here for the next week because you think it's simply an excuse for me to make more horrible Borat jokes** and procrastinate more; have a little faith, will ya? Of course I've got a reason for this. In addition to those two. --Editor) I do actually have a proper reason for the new look. (Well. Okay, I'm using a very loose definition of 'proper' here, but still. --Ed)

This week has unofficially been dubbed Borat Week at Cambridge by students doing Experimental Psychology. Why? Because we get lectures from Professor Simon Baron-Cohen, who sadly is less recognised for the fact that he is a world expert on autism than he is for the fact that he is also a first cousin of Sacha Baron-Cohen, the comic genius behind such creations as Ali G and Borat (picture links not suitable for children. Or mental health, for that matter. --Ed)

So it was that I stepped into my first Exp Psych lecture with the great man, expecting, perhaps a little unrealistically, to be greeted with a scene like this:


Don't ask me why my head is turned 180 degrees backwards. Angry Medics have, uh, very flexible neck muscles. (And the ability to read your mind. Whaddya mean I have crap Photoshop skills, huh?! Well -- well, uh -- well so's your mom! Hah! --Editor)

But instead of giving us great one-liners or doing comedy shtick, Professor Baron-Cohen turned out instead to be one of those quietly inspiring teachers. Even when I went up to ask him a question, he had absolutely no airs at all and treated me like any other person. Despite his star quality lent to him by his more famous cousin and by his own achievements, he remains humble and had that characteristic soft-spokennness I've seen in so many good doctors who work with children (like the consultant in this video from the MTAS March).

But wait! I'll still be keeping up the Borat theme throughout this week (Why? Because. --Ed) and just to reward you for risking mental damage and coming here, I'm going to put up a series of audience participation posts so you can help me make some important academic decisions (Why? Because. --Ed). So stay tuned, and help me procrastinate.

**In response to this post by Cal of Short White Coats, where she voiced her fears about failing her EMQs (such a modest dear, isn't she?), I posted, for lack of anything else to say (hmm now I wonder why? Oh yes, that's because we at Cambridge DON'T GET EMQs for THREE YEARS. Or anything else remotely clinical, for that matter --Ed), a mindless Borat comment:

*in thick Borat accent* I is jealous of you! In Kazakhstan we do notta haf money to pay actors, so de doctor, he bash us in stomach wit crowbar, and when we haf different symptoms we diagnose each other. Self-diagnosis save money. Great success!

I'm witty, right? Right? How am I not getting paid for this, right? Right? HELLO?

Dangit. I really need to get some insecticide for these damn crickets.

An Epiphany In King's College Chapel (a.k.a. OMG I Met A Celebrity OMG!)

King's College Chapel. The most famous icon of Cambridge and one of the world's most recognisable landmarks, it costs the college £1000 a day to operate and is home to one of the country's most famous choirs, King's Voices, which sings regularly for the BBC. It is also a haven for the devout, no matter what religion they come from or if they believe in God at all, to rest, pray and quietly reflect under its soaring arches and grand windows.

And, today, also a place for one gushing medic with a bad case of starstruck-itis.

I was leading a group of people through King's College Chapel when I bumped into Margaret Mountford, Sir Alan Sugar's aide on the British version of The Apprentice (the equivalent of Carolyn and now Ivanka Trump on the American version).


*GIGGLY SCHOOLGIRL WARNING*

Oh. My. Gawd. I gushed and I gushed. I don't know what I did, but somewhere in between I managed to shake her hand, grabbed a picture, and had this exchange:

Margaret: So what do you read here at Cambridge?

Me: OMG OMG OMG uhm like you know like medicine.

She looked at me, gave me this sympathetic look, and disappeared into the crowd.

OMG OMG I JUST MET MARGARET MOUNTFORD!

*end Giggly Schoolgirl Warning*

Back in my room, in between rubbing ointment on my forehead for the bruises caused by repeatedly smashing my head into my table for not being more composed and asking her some coherent questions (like "What career advice do you have for a young medic?" or "Tell me I'm fired! TELL ME I'M FIRED!"), I couldn't help but think that maybe meeting her in King's College Chapel was some sort of sign. But of what? That my future lies in television? That I should take the lessons I learnt from The Apprentice and apply them to medicine? That I should get a sex-change operation and go make really good friends with Alan Sugar's or Donald Trump's children?

I feel another post coming up.

Sigh. I bet many of you have met celebrities, perhaps just last weekend at the Spider-Man 3 premiere in London. (Yes, Little Medic, I know you've seen Stephen Hawking and I haven't. Yay.) I also bet you didn't react as stupidly as I have. Drop me a line if you want to gush. (Unless you've met Donald Trump. In which case, I will hunt you down and kill you out of jealousy.)

Cambridge Win

This is a little late, but...

Cambridge applying foot pressure to Oxford's rear end in the 153rd Annual Boat Race

WOOHOOOO!!

Why Did The Iranians Release The British Prisoners?

Because their President was in a good Mah-MOOD.

Geddit?

*ducks to avoid avalanche of rotten tomatoes*

Sorry, it's a terrible joke. That's what you get when you try and spend 18 hours in a library studying continuously (and fail horribly, by the way --Editor).

But you have to admit, no matter what you think of Iran, their president is a shrewd, clever man. That strategic move was brilliant. The BBC agrees.

But in the meantime, I have greater trouble brewing in my quest to desperately finish revision in time for the big Pharm exam on the 24th:

I can't wake up.

No, not like THAT, silly. Does this sound like I was typing this in my sleep? (Don't answer that. --Ed) When I fall asleep nowadays I wake up 12 hours later. With only 12 hours left in a day, I can't revise enough. Since most of you out there reading this are smarter than I am, it'd be great if you could drop off a tip or two on How To Wake Up On Time. (I know, I know, you're prolly wondering why you're reading a blog written by an idiot, but I assure you I am not one. No matter what this test says. --Ed)

In the meantime, I've got some bad MTAS news for you next. Stay tuned!

I Am A Lazy Bum

(To all you wise-guys out there who yelled "Tell us something new!" - I heard you. --Editor)


4 days into lockdown, and what great worldview-revolutionising truths have I learnt?

I have forgotten how to revise.

Lord give me strength to stay in this library without going back to my room to nap every 2 hours...

(And if any of you med students out there have any revision tactics to drop off, now would be a good time too. Especially if you want my eternal gratitude for any reason.)

(To all you pervs wanting to know who the newscaster chick is: she's the French news icon Melissa Theuriau. --Ed)

This Post Is Brought To You By The Letter 'B'

B. What does B stand for, children? Let us count together.

Firstly, it stands for bitching. Which is what this post is going to be about. So if you can't stand a pissed-off medic ranting about his extremely sad but ironically humourous medicky excuse for a life, then for heaven's sake, press the back button now and go back to whichever porn site you came from. Or go here and dance with the fluffy bunnies.

Secondly, B stands for Type B. As in Type B medical students. As explained by Michelle of Michelle vs The Med Student.

Normally it's tough being a Type B in a med school. You aren't as driven as some of the people in your classroom, fine. You don't take as many notes, fine. You don't score 99% on every test, fine. You still graduate, get unleashed on the poor sods who are going to be your patients, and get to do doctorly stuff like jab people and stuff your fingers up their bums. And as long as you don't kill anyone, you'll be okay. (If you DO kill someone, then you're either 1) very unlucky, or 2) an idiot. Don't point at me and tell the judge at your malpractice trial "But some Cambridge medic said it was okay if I killed a few people along the way!" --Editor)

But to be a Type B medical student in Cambridge? Cambridge, Seat of Academic Power, Home of Zombie Lecturers Who Stay In Their Labs All Day, Birthplace of Research So Impressively Named It Makes Your Granny's False Teeth Fall Out Just Pronouncing It?

Burn in hell, SINNER!

A Cambridge Biochemistry lecturer

Oh heck no. If you don't sit in the library for at least 8 hours a day and whack some fat textbook against your forehead until you can recite everything in it including the author's grandmother's favourite dog's name, then you're not fit to be in Cambridge. You're a Type B. Throw off those fake glasses, you bastard, and pack your bags. Here's a ticket to Hull. Try your luck there, and if they don't take you in, we've already told the British Institute of Learning Disabilities you're coming. Retard.

What else can we find for the letter B? Oh yes, here's one: burnout. As written about magnificently by the inimitable Sid Schwab of Surgeonsblog. I had a supervision today where my supervisor was a real doctor (you know, one of those sad blokes who slaves away in hospital, not some aging hippie who has a PhD and sits in a lab for 5 months obsessing over some obscure molecule which about 3 people in the world genuinely care about. --Ed). As some of you know, I'm interested in doing surgery as a career. I tell my supervisor this. And he tells me he's never doing surgery because it's a horrible, horrible specialty, where all the extremely competitive anal-retentive medics just backbite and bitch about each other in a mad scramble to the top. In fact, he goes so far as to say "It's just like an episode of The Apprentice".

The true nature of surgery

Why the hell am I doing medicine again? Remind me, someone. Please. Answers on the back of a postcard to Jesus College, Cambridge. Either that, or send me a 9mm handgun so I can put myself out of my misery. (But not before taking out a few of my course organisers first. Hey, if I'm going to hell, I want company on the way down. --Ed)

And if you've managed to keep reading this far without passing out cold on your laptop or taking me up on my earlier offer of clicking over to Fluffy Bunny Land, then congrats! I'm not all moan moan bitch bitch, you know. There's some meaning to this B nonsense I've been spouting all this while, and it's that I've finally made the blogging B-list, according to this little Bloglebrity gadget. I've been wanting to make it out of the C-list for a while, and now I'm finally on the B-List. Give it a click and see what list you're on. (Disclaimer: The results are UTTERLY MEANINGLESS and don't mean a thing about blogging ability or popularity, in fact. It's just another one of my lame ways to pass the time whilst waiting to fail my degree. --Ed)

Now excuse me whilst I go do a little lame dance now to celebrate the fact that whilst I am totally and utterly screwed in my career and my life, I at least am nerdy enough to be able to maintain a blog. Though I may have to change its name soon. The Angry Lawyer, anyone? The Angry MBA-Holder? The Angry Construction Worker? Catchy, no?

Giant Penguins Invade Cambridge!

"Hey Kate."

"What?"

"There's a guy walking behind us."

"So? This is King's Parade, Tom. The centre of Cambridge. There are TONS of people walking around us."

"No, no, I think this guy's a bit...weird."

"Why?"

"For some reason, he's carrying a giant penguin."

Sigh. The things I do for art...

Medics Revue promotional penguin

"No, Osama...I Am Your Father!"

Darth Osama bin Vader

Well, okay. So maybe that statement's got a LITTLE inaccuracy in it.

Actually, I'm Osama's MOTHER.

Or at least I will be, when the Medics Revue opens this Wednesday at the ADC Theatre in Cambridge. Titled 'Happy Fetus', it's a fast-paced series of sketches that's sure to induce side-splitting laughter (don't worry, we've got NHS Direct on speed-dial. --Editor) without a penguin in sight.


It runs from Wednesday to Saturday at 11pm, and has always sold out in the past, so book your tickets (which are priced to suit the average student's constricted wallet) today here at the ADC Theatre website or by calling the box office at 01223 300085.

Our past shows (with the ever-so-catchy title 'The Chronicles of Hernia: The Lion, The Stitch and The Ward-Round' --Ed) went to Edinburgh Fringe festival last year and performed to sell-out audiences. This year's production promises to be no less entertaining, especially with a crazed medic completely fed up of lecture theatres in it.

So do me a favour and when you see Osama's mom come on stage, clap loudly. Either that or laugh uproariously when Barney the Dinosaur comes on stage. I wrote that sketch, and if after 573 times rehearsing it, it turns out not to be funny, I'll be eaten alive by my fellow cast members, who despite all being medics, won't be bothered about catching E. coli infections at the time.

Ah well. At least then I won't have to worry about MTAS anymore.

Snapshots Of Hell: The Cambridge Round-Up, Weeks 2, 3, 4 and 5: Of Phallic Snowmen, The Cambridge Footlights, and Her Majesty's Secret Cervix

Okay, so I've been a lazy bum (and this surprises you? Hello? Have you READ me before? Unless of course you're new to this blog, in which case, you'll learn... --Ed) and not updated the Cambridge Round-up for a few weeks now, but hey, so little happens here anyway that the local newspapers have resorted to the American FOX News-like tactics to hype and sensationalise to sell copies. So I've decided, to save everyone's time, to distill 4 weeks' worth of happenings in Cambridge to a nice little edition where you only get the most newsworthy happenings. (And if two out of those three happenings involve me, well, that's a complete coincidence. Really. --Ed)

You Think He's Compensating For Something?
I'm ashamed that Dr Crippen found this before I did. A couple of weeks ago it snowed in Cambridge, and people went as wonky as can be expected for a city in which so many people are under so much stress (for a full report on the madness that ensued, look here --Ed) but apparently I missed the most newsworthy piece of madness of all, which got highlighted in last week's edition of Dr Crippen's BritMeds. Some student, for reasons best not speculated on here, decided to erect (snigger --Ed) a statue of a rather rude bit of anatomy in the middle of Parker's Piece, and got hauled to the station for it. Take a look at the article here and see how he went nuts (giggle --Ed). Literally.

Cambridge Footlights Comedy Club Finds New Star
The Cambridge Footlights.

One of the most famous comedy clubs in the world.

For years, famous comedians have walked through its doors and jumpstarted careers that led them to international fame and fortune. Star-studded names adorn its alumni list. Hugh Laurie (Dr House). John Cleese. Sacha Baron Cohen (Borat). Douglas Adams (author of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy). Emma Thompson. Jimmy Carr.

And now, ME.

*thunderous applause*

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, yours truly has finally joined the ranks of Footlights comedians, as of last Tuesday, when I took to the stage in a Smoker, a selection of short sketches performed fortnightly at the ADC Theatre in Cambridge. It marks the realisation of a dream for me, as I've always wanted to go up on stage under the Footlights banner.

Of course, afterwards I had to face a very angry Director of Studies, my Senior Tutor, and two pissed-off supervisors, all of whom insisted I stop prancing about on stage and concentrate on my studies, but who cares? When I'm begging on the streets in future, at least I can say I was a Footlights comedian. What do you think about 'Will Make You Laugh For Food' as a beggars' sign, huh?

On Her Majesty's Secret Cervix
Cringe-worthy title, isn't it? But get up off the floor and out of your fetal positions, because it's actually a very witty title. Firstly it illustrates the newsworthy fact that Her Majesty WAS in fact in Cambridge, to open the new cancer wing at Addenbrookes Hospital. This grand occasion, for us normal medical students, was marked by having to wait 30 minutes in a hot, very crowded and increasingly noisy lecture theatre until it became apparent that our lecturer (who was none other than the great Professor Andrew Wyllie, discoverer of cell apoptosis) was not going to turn up. (Because, of course, being a Great and Famous Lecturer, he was off to meet the Queen. --Ed)

And now the smarty-pants-ness of the title becomes apparent, because On Her Majesty's Secret Cervix (a parody of the James Bond film title On Her Majesty's Secret Service) was the title of the Cambridge Medics Revue a few years ago. The Medics Revue is a sketch show written and performed by Cambridge medics every year, and yours truly is in this year's show, wittily titled Happy Fetus. This year it's on from March 7th to 10th, and is guaranteed to make people laugh, make my supervisor's blood pressure shoot through the roof, and make my grades fall like the life expectancy of a patient going into cardiac arrest.

But hey, at least it's vaguely academic (and by that I mean it's got the word 'Medics' in the title --Ed). So that's not so bad, right? Right?

I'm so screwed.

Valentine's Day: Of Donald Trump, Nurses, And Gorillas In Pathology Lectures

Ah, Valentine's Day. A day when undying love is declared, when girlfriends who normally berate their boyfriends for not buying them presents berate them FOR buying a Valentine's present, saying that their love did not need an overly-commercialised occasion to be celebrated on; a day when sad singles mope around in singles' bars listening to beatniks read poetry and chugging Bloody Marys trying to get drunk and bring on the sweet release of sleep a little earlier. (Not that I'd know anything about that. Hic. --Ed)

A day when people in Cambridge, eccentric as they are, become even MORE eccentric and do all sorts of weird things. I actually met one medic couple who told me, ensconced in each others' arms, that they were going to celebrate this sacred day by quizzing each other on Anatomy in the library. (Exactly HOW they were going to, uh, explore anatomy, they didn't say, but I'd rather not know. --Ed)

This morning's Pathology lecture saw our lecturer (who, by the way, is a self-confessed sex addict and who is a GOLDMINE for funny quotes--wait for another upcoming edition of a post like this one --Ed) being interrupted by a loud yell from the rear of the lecture hall, as a medic ran down the stairs followed by a large gorilla, and presented her with a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates. (Okay, so the large gorilla was actually a RAG volunteer in a costume, but still. It's a GORILLA in a Pathology lecture. Spot the odd one out. --Ed)

The mystery in my previous post has been solved...NurseQuack WAS sent by HospitalPhoenix after all. He had dropped a pretty big hint in his Valentine's Day post, but I, uh, hadn't read it yet. Yeah, that's it. Donald Trump, who for a while now has been developing quite the crush on NurseQuack, was so overjoyed that he flew NurseQuack back to Trump Tower in New York to have a sumptuous seven-course Valentine's Day dinner.


HospitalPhoenix says here NurseQuack told her boyfriend she was on a nurse-prescribing course in Cambridge. She is. The medicine being prescribed to her is Donald Trump.

Happy Valentine's Day, folks!

Nurse Quacktitioner Arrives

Yesterday after supervision (a Cambridge term for tutorial; no, the University hasn't employed people to walk around us holding whips to make sure we study. Yet. --Ed) I was rummaging around in my pigeonhole, trying to get my supervisor's ringing voice out of my ear (if you must know, his exact words were something along the lines of "You NUMBSKULL! What do you mean, you DON'T know which lipoxins are formed by 15-lipoxygenase? How old are you, eight?!" --Ed) when my hands hit a rather fat envelope. It was suspiciously unmarked; I thought one of the surgeons offended by this post had finally sent me a bomb or a remnant from an anal fistulectomy or something.

So imagine my surprise when, fifteen minutes later, after I'd finished donning my HazMat suit and was carefully slicing open the envelope, this fell out:


This is, of course, one of Mattel's now-discontinued Nurse Quacktitioner dolls, made famous by HospitalPhoenix's blogging. And a lovely surprise it is, too.

But who is it from? The envelope was unmarked, except for a postcode which I will not disclose, and is it a gift, or a temporary loan? Is it a Valentine's Day hint from one of the hot nurses I met recently on my hospital rotations?

If it IS a gift, thanks to whoever sent it! It's lovely, and it made my day. Donald Trump is also overjoyed; he's been developing quite the crush on NurseQuack for some time now.

If it isn't a gift (or if it's filled with anthrax or E.Coli or gunpowder or something--Ed): Alright, who's the wise guy?

I'm Dreaming Of A White Change Of Shift

(Why the weird post title, you ask? Ah, 'tis but another concoction of my brilliantly witty mind. You see, this post is both about the nursing blog carnival Change Of Shift as well as about the fact that it snowed yesterday. Hahaha geddit geddit seewhatIdidthere? --Editor)

Change of Shift is up over at my favourite nursing blog, Nurse Ratched's Place, which is also the only medblog I know of to have appeared in Blogger's Blogs Of Note. Mother Jones was kind enough to include one of my posts (yes, medic posts CAN appear in nursing blog carnivals. No, you do not have to be handsome enough to have every nurse in your hospital want to make out with you, but it helps. Cough. --Ed)

This edition of Change of Shift has a Valentine's Day theme, and Mama Jones wrote some very nice words about me:

The Angry Medic wrote this post about a nurse with a hard, tough exterior, and a heart of gold. He says that she likes him. Well of course she likes you, Angry Medic. You’re a good guy. That’s why those nurses you write about on your blog want to drag you into the nearest closet just like you see on Grey’s Anatomy. You better watch out. One of those nurses that you are so fond of may have special plans for you on Valentine’s Day.

No, that is NOT me blushing. I, um, just have some red stuff on my face. Ketchup from lunch or something. I do not blush! I am a very manly very hot medic. Cough.

Yesterday I undertook an interesting experiment in human psychology. Cambridge is a funny place. Everyone's under so much stress to perform; medical students with glasses thicker than A-Level Statistics textbooks, lecturers who sacrifice time, hairlines and contact with sunlight to stick in their labs waiting for a breakthrough, and porters who double up as riot police every night as the college bar empties. So sometimes all it takes to drive people over the edge is a small relatively mundane occurrence.

Like a little bit of snow.

King's College Great Gate

Now I know places where it snows so much that it's nothing to laugh about *ducks to avoid Eskimo whaling spear* but it NEVER snows in Cambridge, so when it does, things go a little cuckoo. The widescreen madness started at about 8.30am at the Great Gate of Trinity College, where amidst desperate medics on bicycles skidding in the streets and crashing into restaurants, a bunch of mathematicians suddenly lost their inhibitions (hey, normal people lose it when they get drunk, mathmos lose it when it snows. Who knows what goes on in their heads? --Ed) and started a snowball fight. Out came one of the porters to see what all the ruckus was, and BAM went a snowball to his face.

He then went back into the Porters' Lodge, summoned the other porters, and following standard University procedure in dealing with snowball-throwing mathmos, started a snowball fight with them.

Trinity mathmos finally lose it. Spot the tourist desperately trying to get away.

I myself skipped lectures and spent the day doing the tourist thing, outsnapping even the hordes of Japanese tourists thronging King's Parade. Taking a cue from the Bohemian Road Nurse, I enclose some of the more interesting shots I took along my travels:

Tourists snapping away on King's College Chapel, right before a porter came and kicked them off the lawn.

A Jesus College student risking expulsion, beheading, hanging and any number of other archaic punishments in the University Constitution to build a snowman on Chapel Court lawns before the porters catch him.

Jesuan students risk the wrath of Trinity College porters to build a snowman on Trinity College lawns (because everyone knows Trinity snow is more "legendary" than Jesus snow.)

"This is the best damn snow in the South of England. I only step on the best snow, y'hear? And this is the best snow. It's Trump Snow. We should charge people to step on it."